SPIRIT WALKER

Chapter 9: Under the Cover of Darkness (part 1 of 2)

Phylomon flitted from the shadow of one tree after another as he crept to Moon Dance. He'd killed a few slavers in town, but there were others that he had missed, he felt sure. And then there were the kinsmen and friends of those who had died. More than once, he'd faced reprisals by would-be assassins.

He felt bone weary after treating the farmer's daughter for a parasitic worm infection, but his very soul felt worn after killing the slavers. For a thousand years he'd been trying to save his people. Sometimes they seemed like ignorant children, too unwise and too willful for their own good.

By the time he reached the inn, it was well past midnight. He sneaked up the hallway to the guestrooms. The floors were carpeted with worn animal furs. After a thousand years of living furtively in the wild, he could move as silently as any man alive. There was no swishing of clothes, no thump of a footfall as he passed. The only sound came when a floorboard creaked beneath his weight. He halted, silent for long minutes so that anyone who might be listening for his return would think that it was only the old inn settling on its foundations.

He warily unlocked the door to his room, keeping as silent as possible. He cracked the door open.

Sure enough, he could smell an intruder, a big man, rank from sweat. He also smelled a tallow candle burning, with a hint of lavender scent—the kind that a whore might use to freshen her parlor. No one rushed the door, so he imagined that the man was hiding. He heard a soft snore, breath catching. He smiled.

More than once, a would-be assassin had fallen asleep while waiting for him. By slow degrees, Phylomon swung the door wide.

On a stool beside the bed, a single yellow candle guttered, burned down to a stump. That seemed odd. Assassins usually didn't announce themselves that way.

Beneath a tangled pile of blankets, a single bear of a man slept. Otherwise the room was empty. The occupant of the bed was none other than Theron Scandal, the innkeeper.

Phylomon woke the innkeeper with a kick.

"Oh, oh," Scandal said groggily. "It's late." He sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"I agree," Phylomon said. "I'd heard that this room didn't have vermin. I fancied that meant that for once I would sleep alone in a bed."

"My apologies," Scandal said. He stretched. "I was going to get you some dinner, but you weren't in your room."

"You want something more," Phylomon said. "I can see it in the way your shoulders bunch, and you lean forward. Out with it. I like bluntness in a man."

Scandal bunched his dark brows in thought, as if he were unused to such straightforward talk. "I'm worried about this trip I'm taking," Scandal said. "I told you that we had three humans coming with us, but I'm afraid that after tonight they won't be coming anymore."

"They backed out?" Phylomon asked.

"You killed them," Scandal corrected. "Denneli and Coormon Goodman, along with Anduil Smith."

"Three slavers were going with you? Makes you wonder how much a human innkeeper is worth on the slave blocks in Craal, doesn't it? I'm sure you would fetch a great price as a chamberlain."

Scandal's eyes widened. "They wouldn't!"

"They planned to, I suspect," Phylomon said, "yet they were going to too much trouble just to get at you. I suspect that they planned something more." The blue man bent his head in thought. "With the fishery down, I suppose that some in the town have moved elsewhere. You will have lost some fighting men."